Cold Eyes, Yearning Soul
by Vytina
Summary: Everyone is afraid of something. Even the Master of Fear. And she made him face it. By looking into her eyes...he saw his own terror.
1. Silence

**A/N: This is just a little fic that came into my head through various inspiration. It takes place during Lock Up, and focuses mainly on Jonathan Crane's memories of Iris.**

**I do not own Batman.**

**Title: Cold Eyes, Yearning Soul**

**Summary: The Scarecrow does not need anyone to care. He has lived his whole life as a man who thrives in the darkness, using its power to conceive his plans, using its power to carry those plans out. No one has ever cared, and he has learned to push away any hope of caring. All who stare into the cold, merciless eyes of the Master of Fear will learn what fear is. Their hope will die as their terror is born. But even the Master of Fear has a secret. Even the God of Terror yearns for the loving touch of the one person who looked into his eyes....and forced him to see his own fear.**

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"_The voice of the intelligence is drowned out by the roar of fear. It is ignored by the voice of desire. It is contradicted by the voice of shame. It is biased by hate and extinguished by anger. Most of all it is silenced by ignorance."__  
__Karl A. Menninger_

Chapter 1: Silence

It was quiet.

Jonathan Crane was used to silence. He lived in silence…_thrived_ in it. Silence was a rarity that one mustn't abuse, for it was a sacred blessing. He had learned that simple truth as a young boy who worshiped the quiet hours during his granny's afternoon naps; a youth who used the darkness and quiet of the night to prowl throughout Granny Keany's Southern mansion, slipping into the forbidden room and throwing himself into a world overflowing with knowledge…with _power_.

He had learned to respect the silence that filled his laboratory those dark nights as he hunched over his books and notes, perfecting his experiments. Perfecting his revenge upon those miserable fools who had ruined his life. They had destroyed him…taken away his life…all his years of hard work…

And they had taken him away from _her_.

In fact, was she not the _reason_ he had been fired? Of course that imbecilic fool Long said otherwise, condemning him for his experiments on the students. He had done it because of _her_. It was all for _her_. Those poor innocents he had so mercilessly tortured…_innocent_ indeed! Long and the board of directors wouldn't believe the twisted words of the insane professor, telling them of the crimes those students had committed. Well, maybe it wasn't a crime in the eyes of the law—what little good that was. His mouth tightened in anger as the words came to his mind…

_Justice._

_Charity_.

_Compassion._

_Mercy_.

Where were those pretty words when _she_ needed them? Where was _compassion_ and _mercy_ when she came to him, her body covered in injuries more brutal than the bullies of his youth had inflicted upon him? Where was her _justice_? No one except him ever believed her story, so she just stopped talking. She closed herself off from the rest of the world, wrapping herself in a cocoon of anger, self-loathing, agony, and tears that she would not allow to fall.

Oh yes…_compassionate_, _charitable_, _merciful_ people indeed. They had allowed their students to take a healthy young woman, vibrant and passionate for knowledge…a shining star in the field of psychology…and turned her into a broken, angry and frightened object used for twisted pleasure.

But he had made them pay.

His eyes closed, the silence gently coaxing away his anger to remember better times. Times when he was not locked away in this miserable place, with bars on the windows that reminded him of that hated aviary from childhood. A time when he had lived his life to teach students the wondrous world of psychology….when his home was not in a cold, barren cell, but the warm abode of an office, located in one of the higher rooms of the university.

He could see it now. He could see the day he first met her.

_On the whole, just from his location at his desk in the front center of the room, Jonathan Crane could already deduce his student body would be depressingly typical—an assortment of brain-dead quarterbacks and powder-faced cheerleaders who spent the entire class preening themselves. There would be little to expect from this class, that much he could already tell. With a soft sigh, he rose from his seat and began his lecture. As predicted, his dark eyes already saw those boorish athletes slumped in their seat, sleeping away their hangover from last night's activities, and blondes with crimped curls and nauseatingly red lips examining themselves in a small compact mirror. He was far too used to this to care by now. His lecture would fall on deaf ears and dull eyes. He comforted himself with the notion that he would merely repay their lack of attention by delivering low grades this semester, not unlike last semester…and the semester before that…and the semester before—_

_Fortunately, he had recited this material so often that it was possible for him to continue lecturing when his attention was entirely elsewhere. His eyes had just fallen upon a student seated in the front, near the center, not too far from where his podium was located. He didn't know how he had missed her—this glittering gem amongst the dull coal of the rest. She was tall and quite thin, not unlike himself, with narrow hips and subtle, almost unnoticeable curves. Her long legs were folded demurely under her seat, covered with a neat, professional pair of dark jeans, with simple black boots on her feet. Her long, slender-toned torso sported a simple dark sweater, no doubt to provide protection against the brisk winds of autumn. Her long mane of black hair hung down her back, a thick curtain over the right side of her face and spilling lightly down her chest. A pen rested in the hold of black-tipped fingers, flying over the stark white paper of her notebook. The required textbook lay open beside the notebook, and on occasion as he lectured, she would trade out the pen for a yellow highlighter and run it over a line or two in the textbook._

_The class had been packing long before the clock finally turned to the hour hand. Crane lightly closed his book and tucked it away in his worn-leather messenger bag. He certainly had a lively semester to look forward to this semester, he thought sarcastically._

"_Professor Crane?"_

_He paused, turning and seeing, with a jolt, the very woman he'd been distracted by earlier. Her hand outstretched, "Iris DeLaine," she said. Her voice was lower than most girls, but not unpleasantly so. In fact, it was almost a rich deepness that added a soothing rhythm to her brisk and professional tone, "I thought I should introduce myself now, so we don't have to worry about that next week." At his look, her naturally dark lips turned into a half-smile, "Next week, all freshmen are required to meet with their counselors, Professor, I was assigned to you."_

"_Yes, of course," he said, taking her hand, noting the firmness of her handshake, "Forgive me, Miss DeLaine…the first day of class, I'm afraid my mind is a touch unhinged."_

_She smiled widely, showing a row of clean white teeth, "Of course, Professor, I understand. I look forward to our meeting."_

"_As do I," he said politely, walking out the classroom door with her, "Have you already selected a course of action for your future, Miss DeLaine?"_

"_Psychology," she answered simply, "Human psychology has never failed to intrigue me, hence a degree investigating it seemed most logical."_

"_Indeed," he said, "In that case, Miss DeLaine…I will see you next week. Good day."_

_He watched her walk away, her hair swinging lightly in the autumn winds. It reminded him very much of his personal favorite poem; the words passed his lips in a soft whisper that was caught by the wind and carried away._

"_Quoth the raven…nevermore…"_

* * *

There were footsteps coming near his cell. Heavy footsteps that seemed to punish the floor just by walking on it. Jonathan cringed immediately. All the symptoms he once observed in his victims, he could now feel them in his own body—cold sweat covering his body in a thin sheen, pupils tightening, constricting to tiny dots of terror, limbs shaking, the blood in the veins running frigid cold with no way to warm them, the heart pounding violently against the rib cage, so much it felt as though it would rip clean through the flesh.

_Not him…_he clung to the sheets, to the bed frame, anything sturdy, _Please no…not now…please…_

The door slid open, and the heavy footsteps drew nearer…nearer…

The cold metal of handcuffs snapped his thin wrists to the bed post.

Dark laughter filled the room, echoing in his ear, though he tried to force it away.

His eyes closed tight, tight, tighter. His mind was racing, trying to find any sort of memory that would dim, vanquish even, the agonizing pain that was soon to come…the humiliation…the torture that must remain in secret…

Tears burned the rims of his closed eyes, but he would not let them fall. This…this _animal_ would never see his tears. Only she could see them.

Only Iris DeLaine had seen the broken child that still existed deep within the Master of Fear. And she had accepted that child…she hadn't thrown him away like everyone else did.

Just like when his last plans had gone entirely wrong…he had forgotten how potent his toxin had been. He hadn't meant for it to infect him the way it did. He hadn't meant to lose so horribly.

"_One second…one whole second…just one second…someone…call…only one second…"_

_He could feel their eyes on him, gawking through the slot of the isolation cell as though staring at an animal locked away in a cage. He could hear the voice of Bartholomew speaking to the orderlies, telling them to keep him in there this time._

_Yes…keep the animal in the cage._

_Keep him for all to see…let him be made an example of._

"_Just as now is your lesson to learn, Jonathan…"_

_**No…no, Granny please….I'll be good….please not this…I'll be good. I swear I'll be good! Just don't do this!**_

_She was walking away…away from the chapel, her voice raised in a hymn. Oh the irony…the sickeningly perfect irony…_

"_**Granny, PLEASE! PLEASE don't do this! Please don't do this AGAIN! I can't stand it!! PLEASE!!!!!"**_

_She never listened. And they were coming. He could hear the steady, deadly beat of their wings as they swooped in through the open hatch of the aviary. Their talons bared, beaks ready to rip cloth…tear flesh from bone…their eyes were red. Red as the blood his suit was soaked in…they were here. _

_They were coming for him._

_And all would watch. They would watch the Scarecrow be ripped to shreds…and they would laugh. He was the side-show freak again…the source of twisted amusement. No one would come to his rescue. _

_The claws had him, grabbing at his clothes, tearing it away, shredding it as they would soon shred his flesh. Eyes burning a hellish red seared him. He couldn't get away._

"_NO!!!! No, PLEASE!! PLEASE!!!!!"_

_The claws had him…they were going to kill…_

_Suddenly, it wasn't claws anymore. A pair of hands pulled away the straitjacket, letting it fall unwanted to the cold concrete floor. They touched his face, gentle and motherly, not vicious and murderous. His pupils slowly returned from their dilated form as the hallucinations passed away. The gentle, feathery touch of fingertips and long nails brushed the toxin's affects away, cleaned his system of his own poison. He was not leaning against the worn wooden door of the chapel, or the cold, unfeeling walls of the cell. There was warm skin…soft silken strands of hair falling against his cheek, black as the night sky above him. He was lying against a chest…a chest with low, flat curves…his arms wound child-like around a long, narrow waist. His body outstretched between two legs, long and toned with lean muscles. One leg, the one facing the door, was drawn up, protecting from gawking eyes and ridiculing thoughts. Those hands were in his hair, stroking gently with long nails that felt soft and lovingly._

"_Iris…" the name was a broken whisper from his lips, afraid that if he spoke her name, this would prove to be no more than a cruel trick from his toxin._

"_I'm here," she whispered, sending a cathartic wave of relief crashing over him, "I'm here, Jonathan…shhh…"_

_He could see a soft glint of silver in the dim light. One hand continued to stroke his hair gently, "I took the cure from a hospital," she whispered soothingly in his ear, "It's going to make you sleep for a while…and when you wake up…you'll be fine, alright? Will you let me help you?"_

"_Will…will you still be here…?" there it was, the frightened child that had pounded so desperately upon the walls of the chapel, begging for mercy. The child needed to know he would wake up still holding on to her, with her arms still around him, still telling him he was safe._

_There was a sharp but brief pain in his upper arm. He had taught her well…he barely felt the needle pierce the skin…barely felt the medicine seep down through his veins. _

"_Yes…" she whispered._

There was pain…oh there was so much pain. His tears seeped down his face, not unlike the blood seeping from the wounds on his body. He couldn't even try to move, to cover himself with his clothes or the sheets. He knew his wrists were now free; the dull, cold weight of the handcuffs was no longer there. But he couldn't move…the only movement he had done was curl into the fetal position, arms tight around himself, the tears searing his face as they fell.

He wished Iris was here.

But she wasn't.

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**A/N: The last flashback is from "Dreams in Darkness". By the way, if you're looking for a happy fic, stop reading this one now. There is very little happiness...because frankly, "Lock Up" just wasn't a happy episode! Please review anyway.**


	2. Shadows

**A/N: This chapter takes place right after Jonathan Crane escapes from Arkham. It involves his thoughts and a few memories as he's running to somewhere safe...but wherever might he find safety in Gotham?**

**Please review.**

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"_One's past is what one is. It is the only way by which people should be judged."_

_~ Oscar Wilde_

Chapter 2: Shadows

It was raining—pouring, sleeting rain that pierced the skin, which of course was not a hard task in itself, seeing as the asylum uniform provided little more protection from the downpour than a second skin. He felt frozen to the core, but he must keep running. If he did not…he would be taken back into Arkham…back under his cold, unfeeling hand of command. And he would not let that happen. He could not! This was his one and only chance for freedom, come to him with a desperate show of strength that had rendered the escorting guard immobile, unconscious while he grabbed the keys and ran. He did not even stop to think, only used the keys to slip out through a back door of the asylum and run with all the might he could muster. The smallest twinges of guilt stung at him, thinking of all those he'd left behind in Arkham, left to suffer continuously under Bolton—probably more so now that he had escaped. But Jonathan Crane was not a man who allowed guilt to get the better of him. He had taken his chance and he would use it to buy his freedom. Would he forget those he'd left? Most probably not…but remembering them and physically returning to their rescue, or to suffer alongside them was certainly not in his plans. He didn't quite know where he was running to, and fortunately, he had a good mile or so before he would reach civilization and need to worry about such matters. Right now, all he was focused on was running until he physically could not do so any longer.

* * *

"_I'm telling you, it's not plausible."_

"_And as the professor, I am telling you, the student, that it __**is**__ plausible. Perfectly so, in fact."_

"_And as a thinking, intelligent human being, I am telling you it isn't."_

"_Why must you question everything and anything that comes out of my mouth, Miss DeLaine?"_

"_I'm not questioning everything. If you recall, Professor, there are several things that I __**do**__ support and agree with you on. This does not happen to be one of them."_

"_It __**is**__ plausible and accurate."_

"_It is not."_

"_It is."_

"_It is not."_

"_Are they still going at it?" Dr. Long grumbled, passing by the open door from the lounge, cup of coffee in hand, "They haven't stopped with that bantering for the past hour."_

"_They're stubborn," his assistant answered cheerfully, "And Miss DeLaine is quite the debater, Doctor. She's quite interesting, in fact…you should debate with her sometime."_

"_I'll leave that to Crane." He replied shortly, "I've no time for such inane bickering."_

_Inside the room, professor and student were sitting facing each other in the near center of the room. Crane was sitting upright upon the armchair he kept with him, while Iris was seated upon crossed feet on the small couch. She was dressed simply and comfortably in jeans and an overlarge sweater, sliding down her angular, narrow shoulders to reveal the black straps of her camisole. Her sandals presided next to the open door, allowing her to set feet upon the soft cushions of the couch without invoking her professor's complaints._

"_For the hundredth time, it is. Did no one ever teach you to mind and respect your elders?" Crane asked, exasperation all but dripping from his words. Iris rolled her eyes carelessly._

"_Let's not bring life lessons into this, my dear professor," she replied briskly, "And were you or were you not the person who told me to question all that I hear and read, not just mindlessly absorb and swear by it without asking questions and digging deeper?"_

"_That does not apply here, my dear."_

"_Oh, I think it does," she answered, "For the last time, the __**Queen**__ and __**Bishop**__ can move diagonally; the __**Knight**__ moves in an L. I'm sure you would very much like it if you could move your Knight diagonally and thus have a sliver of hope , but alas, you have boxed yourself in…and your little horse is all mine." The chess piece slid effortlessly under the direction of her fingers across the board, knocking over the horse only to have two long fingers swipe out and grasp it, "And, dear professor, that is check and mate."_

_He sighed heavily, sitting back and rubbing his temple. "Best eight out of nine?" Iris asked, her expression nothing short of smug. He answered her question with a momentary glare._

"_Fine," he finally replied, "But this time, __**you**__ are playing black."_

"_Black or white, try as you might," she sang lightly, twirling the board with an idle gesture, "You'll never win this night."_

* * *

The rain had not stopped pouring down; if anything, it was far more intense, blinding and piercing as it fell from darkened skies. He slowly slumped against the wall of an alley, the brick rough and unfeeling against his soaked clothes and numb flesh. He could feel, hear his heart, pounding violently against his ribs to the point of extreme pain. He was weak, loathe as he was to admit it, he couldn't deny it. Numbness was creeping into his limbs, weighing them down as though infecting them with the purest form of lead. Taking mere steps was to rack extreme, nearly excruciating pain through his body, shaking him down to the foundations. But he must keep his head clear and alert. Now he had reached civilization, on the outskirts of downtown Gotham. And here, he became prey just as much as he had been in Arkham, when he was the security chief's prey. The tiniest sighting—man, woman or mere child—would alert the police, and then of course, the Batman himself. Fortunately, the shadows were in abundance this night, and they would become his allies. Creeping, slipping through them as though one of them, he made his way through the city's maze of alley ways. He could not suppress the resentment that boiled within him, almost scalding. He was the Master of Fear, the God of Terror…and here he was, skulking about to avoid detection at all costs. He should be forcing the miserable fools of this wretched city into the shadows, frightened, pleading with the darkness to cloak them, hide them away from his eyes, else they would sacrifice their sanity—and more importantly, their very lives. But that must wait. For the foreseeable future, he must keep to the shadows only, avoiding detection at all and any cost. He would never go back to Arkham…he was more than certain he would never return from those cold walls if he did.

Of course, this was not the first time he had felt so incredibly vulnerable; as an adult, perhaps, although several of his encounters with Batman had left him feeling nearly so. But even those experiences paled in comparison to the feelings that the last few months under Bolton's iron, suffocating grip had conceived. He had fallen so incredibly low…the Scarecrow reduced to little more than a child awakened from his nightmares by his own screams…howling, crying for mercy that would not come…only to realize he had not been dreaming at all…rather, he was still trapped within his nightmares. After all, the nightmare which is life itself was one that no one could awaken from…

* * *

"_**Filth**__…so like your mother, aren't you?" the voice was cold and deadly quiet, just as it always was. But when it lowered to such a quiet whisper, the child knew what was coming. His heart began to beat hard and fast, praying silently she would be merciful._

_But mercy was not a word with which she was familiar._

"_I believe it may be time we paid the __**chapel**__ a visit, my literary young friend." There it was, that dreaded word…the name of the very location that was the source of his never ending nightmares, his undying horror, "Kindly dress for the occasion. You __**know**__ which suit!"_

_The pale, skinny youth could not stop his hands from trembling as he opened the dresser and pulled out the suit—a plain red shirt, plaid vest and dark tie, all uniformly tucked under a crisp blue Sunday suit. It had to be neat and straight, she would stand for nothing less. His eyes darted to the closed door, where he could all but see her standing. Hands folded quietly, pale skin against stark black dress, eyes cold and unfeeling. Slowly, he opened the door with a shaking hand. He could not help himself._

_Her hand was an iron grip on his upper arm, ensuring his scrawny form could not rebel and run, "I warned you to stay out of the forbidden room, didn't I, boy?" It was always "boy", or "child"…she rarely called him by the name which she had christened him with._

"_Please, Granny…" he whispered, desperately trying to plead his way out of his sentence, "I-I found the book."_

"_Lies. The demon's tongue. Never mind, we'll cleanse his wickedness away."_

_He could see the chapel rising closer, a looming monster staring down with unblinking, unfeeling eyes, incapable of conceiving anything but fatal misery and agony for his victims. "Grandmother wanted a real chapel, of course. But Granddad would have his birds. Still…she held service here __**every**__ night. You should have seen it in its __**glory**__, child. The pride of Georgia gentility…a crystal palace reaching to the heavens! Exotic fauna imported from all over the world! Snow white doves! Alabaster egrets! Regal herons! Like God's winded __**angels**__. White…pure…cleansed…"_

_She was unlocking the door now. His mind screamed to run, to flee somewhere…anywhere. But her grip was unrelenting; it tightened all the more when she felt his body jerk away, thick nails biting through his suit. The door opened, and she stepped inside, eyes raising up to the gaping, skeletal rafters of the aviary, that dark look of nostalgia in her eyes. This place was the only thing she smiled at, knowing what it would do to the child locked in her vice grip in mere moments. "That was before the market crash, of course. And Grandfather Keeny blew his brains out in the fruit cellar. Mother hanged herself soon after…leaving us to fend for ourselves. Me, Marion…her wayward daughter Karen…and now __**you**__, Jonathan."_

"_P-Please, Granny! I-I'll be good!" he begged. The cold stone floor of the chapel met his palms as he skidded against it, flung unceremoniously by an uncaring hand—a hand which was meant to nurture and care for him, but it had only contempt and misery to offer him._

"_The chapel went __**dark**__ after Mother died…cold and empty like the grave. Leaving us alone…with no one to watch over us…protect us…from the __**darker**__ thing outside." She said quietly, turning to close and lock the door, turning to leave him to his fate once again, "T'was God's will, you see…his great lesson in how to face our childhood fears…"_

"_Granny, __**please**__!"_

"…_just as it is your lesson now, Jonathan." The door fell closed with a final __**clang**__, the lock sliding into place with an ominous __**clack**__._

"_**Amazing grace…how sweet the sound….**__"_

"_Granny, __**PLEASE**__!! I can't stand it!! PLEASE!!!" he was on his knees, pounding, begging against ears that had no intentions of answering his desperate pleas for help. The wood of the door was as unfeeling as her heart, cold and stiff against hot, sweat-slicked palms; against a child's voice, begging and sobbing for mercy. "PLEASE! Don't do this! Please don't do this __**again**__! I'll be good! I'LL BE GOOD!!!"_

_A moment of heavy, painful silence passed._

_And then he could hear the wings…beating, flapping, pounding closer and closer…closer…_

* * *

His feet slipped upon wet stone, sending his bony frame down upon the cold ground. He landed in a puddle; water splashed over his chest and upon his face. The rain had nearly blinded him, even if he blinked, sight was near impossible. He tried to get up, once, twice, only to fall repeatedly back into the same puddle. The pool of water was nearly spent on his skin and clothes now. His hand weakly raised up, catching the edge of something. Stone, carved into a 90-degree angle…a step. He could feel another edge pressing against his heaving lungs…he must be lying on a stone staircase. He tried to make out where he was, but in the sleet, all he could see was the dark, looming outline of a manor. It was not unlike the one he had lived in throughout his childhood…very similar in fact. This place felt familiar, though, and not in the ominous way the building of his Georgian youth had. Someone important lived here…but who was it? He had known he would end up here, lying upon these steps, waiting for someone to come and see him…but why here? Why did he trust he would not be betrayed by the resident of this place? What was it…?

Someone opened the door. A gasp, something falling to the ground with a light _thud_…footsteps, light and quick like a sprite, hurried, rushed to his side…he could see legs, two knees as the figure fell down upon them…there were two hands…feeling for a pulse, turning him over on his back. There was a voice. He knew that voice….he knew…

All went black.


	3. Sanctuary

**A/N: The last chapter....yes, a short fic, but no sense in dragging out something so bittersweet as this. Please enjoy and review.**

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"_There is no sanctuary of virtue like home."_

_~ Edward Everett_

Chapter 3: Sanctuary

Warmth...a full size bed with silken sheets…the stiff but secure feel of bandages wrapped around his multiple wounds…he could smell pine and roses…this couldn't be a hospital, where the stench of chemicals and medicine would linger heavily in the air. And these surroundings were most certainly the complete and absolute reverse of all that Arkham stood for. So then…where…?

His eyes slowly opened.

A brush ran through ebony hair, vivid eyes staring blankly into the mirror of her bathroom. The silk of the black robe was cool against her skin, dark hair hanging down her back, still wet from her bath. Slowly, the brush lowered back to the porcelain of the bathroom dresser. Steam lingered still throughout the dark-painted walls; water droplets hung still to the outer shell of the tiled tub. Her attention no longer remained on herself. Her former professor and mentor had appeared from the fog of one of the worst storms Gotham had ever witnessed, exhausted and nearly delirious. She had gently carried him up to her room, bathed him and tended to his injuries—the likes of which were suspiciously extensive. She knew guards occasionally took liberties into their own hands and roughed up the inmates of the asylum, just to prove the bravado and mask their own pathetic insecurities…but nothing of this extent. Not to mention, he usually never slept longer than a few hours in increment. He hadn't so much as stirred within the last fourteen hours. Slowly she stood, smoothing the folds of silk around her waist. She should at least see if he was awake by now…if not, she needed to seek medical attention that was out of her vat of knowledge.

She stepped out, her eyes falling on him just as he made the feeble attempt to sit upright, "Jonathan, don't." she said, gently pulling him back down to the pillows, "You're in no shape to be moving right now....just lay back down."

He saw her, eyes slowly blinking with the weight of uncertainty and delirium, "I...Iris?" he whispered, voice cracked and weak.

"Shhh..." she said softly, "Lay back...." she pulled the feather-stuffed cover back over him.

He touched her hand...she was here...real...he felt tears come to his eyes. They stung, burned…he hadn't permitted such a display of weakness since he was merely a small, tormented child. But…he was little more than that now, lying here in her bed, a place he had so often dominated her as lover and mentor. No trace of such domination lingered within his eyes; it was pure hopelessness and an undeniable air of brokenness. And yet he was safe. He somehow knew he would come here…he always did. He always came back to her, as the child returns to its parents in the end.

He reached for her. His arms felt leaden, but the desire, the need to raise them to her was foremost in his mind now. He was slowly permitting himself to revert back into the childhood he had never been granted, his posture, the look in his eyes…all of it identical to a weeping infant reaching for its mother. "Come here...please, Iris…hold me...just for a minute..."

She had stood up, going to leave him to rest. At his voice, she paused near the door, "W...what?" her eyes swept over him, demeanor and appearance, with ill-disguised shock and mingled terror, "Jonathan…what's happened to you?" When had the Master of Fear permitted such vocabulary such as "please" and "hold me" into his diction?

"Hold me....p-please…" he sounded like a frightened child—a babe wailing for comfort and attention from a momentary neglecting mother.

Her eyes continued downward. He was naked beneath the coverings, for she had worried that redressing him would only have induced more pain. His movement upward, reaching for her like a child, had caused the covers to slide downward, revealing the bruising, the bandaged wounds.

He cringed violently in shame at his marks; they seemed to burn under her gaze, "Don...don't look at them...please....just....just hold me..."

"Jonathan," her voice was constricted slightly, "Answer me. Now." She made it perfectly clear that she would do no such thing until he addressed what had happened to him. She had her suspicions…but his confirmation was the only thing that would make it mildly realistic.

He trembled, unwilling to answer her, but in the desperate need for her comfort and love, he had no other choice but to obey her demands, "I...B..Bolton....he...." he could barely speak…the tears were falling now, cold and unfriendly...the pain...the fear..the humiliation…it all came crashing down on him, bringing with it far more pain than the physical wounds could ever hope to conceive.

She swallowed hard, "Jonathan, tell me and tell me right now....please." It was not her nature to speak such pleading words, but the tears seeping down his face and the violent shudders threatening to send him into convulsion was enough to coax such things from her mouth.

"He…beats us…he has since he started working at Arkham. It…It wasn't so bad at first, but it's only gotten worse…and worse…now the beatings have become torturing...and.....now he's started….he…rapes us...." the shudders increased threateningly as he remembered Harley's quiet sobs echoing from her cell a few nights ago…right before Bolton had come to him.

She felt something break inside of her...anger? Agonizing grief? She couldn't tell. "Jonathan...." her voice was lost as he continued. He seemed incapable of stopping now that she had commanded his words.

"He...threatens us...chains us down at night...he electrified our doors, capable of triggering it with a mere touch of a button, on a remote that _he_ controls.....he .....he's broken bones....he broke Tetch's ankle....Edward's wrist last week.....and then he...he tried to take Harvey's coin away...then he claimed Harvey tried to assault him without any reasoning…they sedated him. He almost overdosed on the drugs…" He rocked back and forth on the bed, arms tight around him, "Arnold...Bolton cracked his ribs...threatened to destroy the puppet—he held him over a can of termites. Arnold nearly had a heart attack.....the guards let it happen. They should know, should recognize the signs of abuse, but they do nothing. Why...God, why did we do that stupid trial?"

"What...? Jonathan, you can't think that---" her interruption fell on deaf ears.

Jonathan looked at her blankly. "If Jervis hadn't manipulated the guards with his chips...if we hadn't staged the whole thing.....maybe they would be more inclined to help us now...."

"Jonathan…those guards have never wanted to help you.....you know that, and I know it. They're there to get paid, not protect the lunatics. That's all they think of us, so don't blame yourselves for this…" in spite of pretty words, she couldn't avoid the one thing killing her, "He's RAPED you?!?" the word was acidic on her tongue. She nearly wanted to vomit at the mere thought of that bastard touching them—any of them…but especially Jonathan, "How many times have you been raped?" she spoke quietly, voice trembling with fury. She didn't want to know, and yet she had no choice but to ask.

He looked at his lap, "6…" the number fell from his mouth with all the finality of a death drum.

CRASH!

She had forgotten entirely about the glass she'd been holding in her hand. It smashed to pieces within her grasp, glass shards going everywhere. The tiny amount of water that had been contained within it mingled with the blood now seeping from her wounded palm. He flinched from her, trying to delve into some refuge within his own mind, away from her anger. She tried to pull herself together but failed nearly the moment she tried to do so. That...that _animal_.....how dare he?! He had touched Jonathan--her Jonathan.....not once, not twice....but six times!?! He....that son of a---

She was lost in her fury....until she heard something behind her.

He was…crying.

Not only crying, but sobbing, sobbing as innocently and frantically as he had done when he was but a child. He was tainted ...disgusting....why was he even here? How could he ever come to her again? He was hardly worthy of her anymore. He was nothing more than scum, just as Bolton always cursed them to be...filthy...pathetic....tainted...used...

"Jonathan?" she spoke to him softly, her anger ebbing at the hoarse, broken sounds of his sobs. Her eyes widened slightly when he made to sit up once more.

"I'm sorry...I shouldn't have come here. It's too dangerous for you if any find out I came here...I...I'll go..." he tired to get up. His wounds objected almost instantly. He knew his ribs weren't broken, but they certainly ached, screaming in pain as though they were.

"Jonathan!" she said, holding him by the shoulders and keeping him in the bed, "Listen to me.....I've been taking risks for months now. Do you honestly, truthfully believe that I would shrink away just because someone might discover that you came here? You're not going anywhere, Jonathan, so don't try to run...don't run from _me_, love..."

Her hand tilted his face up to meet hers, looking with no disguised sadness at the despair and emptiness lingering heavily within the depths of his tear-rimmed black eyes, "My poor tormented love......shhh....it's alright....I'm here..."

She climbed fully onto the bed, opening her arms, "Come here, my poor injured love....come to your Iris...."

* * *

He crawled to her…like a child would go to its mother. He had no strength left in him to do anything different; even this movement was enough to produce sharp, agonizing pain through his limbs. She watched him, watched his long arms wrap around her, head burying in her chest. Not barely a moment after he was securely within her hold did she feel his tears upon her silk-covered chest, "Shhh.....Jonathan, it's alright now....I'm here....I've got you and I won't let you go....it's alright, my sweet.....your in your wolf's arms....she won't abandon you......."

"Iris...Iris...oh god…" his words were punctuated with a breathless sob that produced more dampness upon her chest.

"What is it, my love?" she murmured, "Tell me....what is it?'

"I missed you…so much..." he whispered, "I…I feel so filthy, so unclean in your arms after revealing to you what he has done. I no longer am deserving of you, Iris, but heaven help me, I need you. Please, forgive me…don't abandon me…"

"I know, darling....and I'm never letting you leave my arms again....I won't let you go back to Arkham." Her arms tightened around him as she spoke, a physical confirmation of her promise.

"B...Batman..." that hated name left his lips unwillingly, "He'll find me...he..he'll want to take me back.."

"You are not leaving this house, this bed, or my arms.....I won't let him take you back.....you're mine from now until the end of your days...." her lips brushed over his ear softly, "I love you, Jonathan....I won't let anything happen to you again....I'm not letting you go back." She touched his face, "Look at me.....and lay on your back, Jonathan..." Her eyes looked down, pulling down the sheet that covered his body, frowning when he tried to stop her.

"Don't...the marks…please don't look."

"Jonathan--"

"Please...they're so ugly…so hideous…as disgusting as a…scarecrow…"

"Jonathan----" she sighed heavily, "Jonathan, just listen to me...." she reached out, fingers skillfully and swiftly tugging the sheets from him, her eyes narrowing slightly as she observed him scrambling to get them back, whining and pining for some protection from her eyes, like a child desiring the covers back in the cold.

"Don't! Iris, please!"

She was having none of this. This might humiliate him for a little while, and it was most assuredly going to physically hurt, but he would understand and welcome the pain, just as she had done so many times before. She leaned down, pressing her lips to the wounds after caressing them slowly. Hands and lips moved softly down his body, over each and every wound. She heard him whimper, but would not be deterred. A hand lightly turned him over, peeling away his bandages to expose the wounds all the more. The process was repeated; she felt a shudder as her hand caressed a tender area. Her lips and hands went down his back, over his posterior, where several blue and purple bruises existed.

* * *

A moan escaped his throat involuntarily at the sensual gesture, "Oh god…" Suddenly, his moan stiffened into a sharp gasp, "I....Iris?"

"Hmm?"

"W…what are you doing?" he tried to crane his head around, to see her properly. Unfortunately, all he could make out was the dark shape of her bowed head over his lower back, where a long gash was healing rather poorly.

"Hold still, my love.....this is going to hurt..." she said softly, "But I promise, I will make you feel good soon...just breathe...this will hurt." Carefully and slowly, she opened the wound with a small knife she kept clean and ready to use on her bedside table. The dark scabbing was peeled away, bit by bit, until the wound was completely bare. It started to bleed, the crimson liquid seeping down his back. She paused, hearing him whimper loudly.

"Iris...wh...why are you doing this?" he whispered, unwilling to verbally address just how much this hurt physically, as well as emotionally. He felt like he was being exposed all over again. Memories of the night in which he had received that very wound came haunting through his mind. He nearly began to shake, only to be brought back to reality with the pain of several more wounds being opened and peeled apart. The pain was numbed only by the memories of how he'd received each individual injury. Suddenly, all the pain was nearly instantly quelled as a cloth, warm with water, pressed to his wounds. He wasn't sure when Iris had gotten the water or cloth, but at the moment, he wouldn't dare complain. This was soothing, gentle and calming…like a mother tending to her child's wounds. Yes…this was why he always returned to her. He wasn't returning, broken and beaten, to his lover…but to a woman who had filled the maternal need he had long since suppressed. But these last months under Bolton's cruel and unfeeling reign, that suppression had been nearly instantly overturned, and even had begun to take over his darker nature. No doubt he would be allowed to return to his truer nature in due time, but until then, he would simply opt to succumb to the inner child which he had kept locked away for so long—far too long.

"Iris…" he whispered, voice quietly muffled in the pillow upon which his head was currently resting. He felt the cloth pause, which was indicator enough that she was listening. He sighed softly, looking at her with a small turn of the head.

"When you said…you would not allow Batman to take me away—back to Arkham…did you mean it?"

"You even need to ask?" Iris said softly, setting the cloth to soak in the bowl of water while she wiped his wounds with a dry towel, "Or have I proven that my promises mean so little that you would need a confirmation of such a vow as I have made to you?"

He didn't answer. He knew he shouldn't be second guessing her; she had done nothing to merit his questions and demands…but at this time, when he had sunken so low that his pride had been completely demolished within the last hour, replaced with the lowest form of humility his body could muster up, he just needed one last confirmation.

"Iris, please…I just need to—"

He was cut off almost instantly as her hands gently lifted him from the warmth of the bed, helping him walk onto the cool tile of the bathroom and lowered him into the bath, turning on the warm water. He sighed softly as the liquid heat surrounded him. His wounds welcomed it, absorbed it as though thirsting for such treatment. His eyes slowly opened, swallowing quietly as he watched her fingers tug at the belt tied around her narrow hips. The silk robe parted and fell to the ground, sliding down arms and legs to pool at her feet.

"Iris…I…I…" his words died as her fingers lightly pressed to his lips.

"Hush, my love….hush…."

* * *

It was still raining outside. The wind howled and raged, pounding, demanding to be allowed entrance into the windows which were barred against its anger. The rain pounded in its own right, making its own demands in no uncertain terms of fury. Lightening flashed, thunder cracked and ripped through the skies, illuminating the floor just beside the windows briefly before retreating away. It seemed only lightening knew when its battle was lost, leaving its fellow elements to wage a war they would never be victorious in. Inside, safe from the storm outside, the room was dry and warm, filled with the glow of a hundred candles flickering about, shadows dancing upon the walls. The covers were drawn up only halfway upon the massive bed, its warmth only needed to a certain extent. The warmth which the two bodies shared, limbs woven together in a sensual pattern of resting intimacy, was enough to keep them both from any chill that might seep in from the storm outside. Long, black-tipped fingers wove through red hair slowly and methodically, eyes gazing down upon the Scarecrow's sleeping form, his head buried between the soft, warm curves of her breasts, long, thin arms wound around her waist even in sleep.

There was movement, a shadow flitting across the window. She knew that shadow even without looking up to get a proper view of her unexpected—or rather, expected—and unwelcome visitor. She knew he would attempt entry into her home, but hers was no abandoned warehouse utilized as a lair; she had taken all precautions to ensure her home would be a safe hold for herself and others. He would try to enter in upon this sanctuary, and he would fail. And she would gladly permit his failure.

None were granted entry upon this sanctuary of love and insanity.

Only those who were truly mad enough to cross such lines and redefine the very idea of love could enter here.

This sanctuary belonged to the Scarecrow and his Mistress of Fear.

**Fin.**


End file.
